


Letter of Transit

by Sarah T (SarahT), SarahT



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/pseuds/Sarah%20T, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/pseuds/SarahT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brother who came in from the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letter of Transit

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Spike and Livia for reading and suggestions.

The car hit another succession of potholes just outside Prokuplje, and Sherlock was flung into the smoked glass divider. He tasted blood—more blood—as he levered himself back up, noting absently the shaking in his bicep. "Well, if the beatings didn't do for my spleen, this rescue certainly will."

"Your spleen isn't ruptured, Sherlock," Mycroft said, rummaging unperturbed through a bag in the darkness at his feet. "And while Serbia has supposedly invested nearly three billion euro in its highways in recent years, I'm afraid much of that money was, shall we say, diverted to more attractive ends."

Sherlock's stomach lurched, and he pressed his palm against his mouth. "Don't tell me you've taken up making horrid double-entendres in my absence," he groaned. "That was all you needed to...to be an absolute Bond villain."

Though surely a Bond villain would have arranged to escape in greater comfort. The car seemed to be rolling more than was strictly called for by the level of corruption in Serbian society. Cold sweat prickled on his brow. He fumbled at the coat they'd taken from the guard, unable to decide whether he wanted it on or off. 

Mycroft decided for him, pulling it away to look at his back. Sherlock hissed, and his stomach rolled again. Behind him, he heard the crinkle of foil being ripped.

"As much as I've missed this repartee, perhaps you should concentrate on not being sick in the car. We still have some distance to go."

Sherlock meant to make a witty reply, but an icy pain suddenly lanced through one of the larger wounds on his back. His vision sparkled; he could taste the cold; smell the cheap Serbian tobacco and spilled gasoline in the air. For a moment, he thought he might arc straight up out of the car, and his hands reflexively clenched the vinyl of the seat. "Mycroft!"

"My apologies, Sherlock," his brother said, blandly, dabbing more lightly at his back with the pad. "I think we've waited long enough to disinfect your injuries."

" _We've_ waited—" he began indignantly, just as Mycroft sought out another of the deeper cuts. The jolt snapped his teeth closed. He was too weak to do anything but go with the pain and the nausea, go with it and find that _edge_ where the jittery sickness of unfocused adrenaline gave way to clarity. He'd been there before, oh yes. Midnights in London, high on the perfectly-calculated dose, and perfectly in sync with the glare, the lights, the noise. Even the smell of the disinfectant reminded him of shooting up in Montague Street, the preparation of his works like hearing the sounds of an orchestra tuning up. God, he'd missed it.

After a timeless period, he receded back into himself, sinking down into the chill. Vaguely, he heard Mycroft speak again. "If you squirm, it makes it worse."

'Worse' was one way of putting it. But 'more' was more accurate here, and Sherlock wondered that Mycroft didn't see it. Mycroft tore open a fresh pad and returned to work on Sherlock's shoulder. First there was contact, the breathless instant of anticipation when he knew the pain was about to come, and then the sensation bore down on him again, curling Sherlock's toes. Even when the pressure was gone, the pain still ramified through him, stray echoes of sharpness. Sherlock's gulps of air felt like breathing in a sparkler. Mycroft's other hand gripped his shoulder, and Sherlock, now inspired, could see without looking the detached, appraising expression on his brother's face--

"I'm not squirming," he gasped out. "You're doing that on purpose."

"Am I." Mycroft's fingers skidded artfully into a deep bruise, and Sherlock's arm flew up and back, as if galvanized by a current. He clutched convulsively at Mycroft's neck, pulling his head closer.

"You…most certainly…are."

"Shall I stop?" Mycroft inquired, low into his ear.

As if that were an option. As if that had ever been an option for Sherlock, when it had gotten this far. "What would a Bond villain do?"

"Oh, I think _this_ ," Mycroft said, perfectly conversationally, and Sherlock was flying again.

He wasn't sure how long it went on. Mycroft's timing was perfect, never letting him crash or pushing him quite beyond the limit. Sherlock wondered how much of this skill had been picked up in interrogation scenes like the one he'd just lived through, then dismissed the question as immaterial. What mattered was the sheer ingenuity of it, Mycroft's relentlessly complicating brain transforming a practical task into something else indeed. Sherlock gave himself over entirely to the appreciation of it. He only became aware that his heart-rate was slowing as Mycroft was smoothing on the last of the gauze.

"Done?" he asked. His voice was high and breathy, strange in his own ears.

"Yes. I think you'll avoid sepsis until we can get you treated properly."

But Sherlock wasn't finished, not quite. He turned back, pressing himself against Mycroft's hip without warning. Rare as it was, of course he would be hard. Obvious. And certain considerations that might have prevailed elsewhere seemed as remote and inapplicable to his situation as the 1867 Austro-Hungarian constitution. Mycroft only exhaled delicately and let his thigh relax, just enough for Sherlock to grab hold of that ridiculous Russian coat and hoist himself over Mycroft's leg. He worked himself hard and fast against Mycroft, who steadied him and murmured something in his ear. It still hurt, of course, but a deep, rolling ache that crooned through him. As he moved, it came back to him that this wasn't the first time—there had been other nights—deleted—when Mycroft had found him and brought him down just this way. How strange that he hadn't remembered. He supposed he hadn't had to, after he'd gotten clean. He'd never needed that lightning strike, to purge the wild electricity from the air.

Well, no matter, he needed it now, and so he buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder and rode the rictus to the furthest possible point.

"Breathe, Sherlock," Mycroft said, and Sherlock gasped and fell back, released.

*

An hour later, on the private plane that had just taken off, Sherlock eyed Mycroft warily over a cup of tea. He was, he knew, filthy, and even more so since the car ride. But he felt feral still, and oddly self-protective. The immaculate interior of the plane, the first-flush Darjeeling in the bone china cup, the pyjamas neatly folded on a side table—they all seemed suspicious to him.

Mycroft had just emerged from the small cabinet fitted into the side of the plane, hair damp, pulling on a navy pinstripe robe. "Your turn."

"Later," he mumbled.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me for mentioning it, Sherlock, but you're not the most appealing of traveling companions at the moment."

"If you don't care for the atmosphere on board, I'm sure there's a parachute around somewhere."

"Delightful." Mycroft smiled mirthlessly. "Do try to remember that you're returning to a civilized country."

Civilized. When had civilization ever done him any good? "Boring," he said, and gulped at the tea.

"I believe I mentioned that London is in serious peril?"

"Give me the files, then."

"After you've cleaned up."

Sherlock glowered. "Was this all just some trick to bring me back, then?"

"Certainly not." Mycroft crossed his arms, looking at him. "Although I must confess to a _modest_ deception."

He tried to sit up. "What...?"

But he already knew the answer—should have known it a minute earlier, in fact. A rush of sleepiness swept over him. The taste of the tea. The taste of the tea...

"Up with you," Mycroft said cheerily, pulling him to his feet.

"You drugged me," Sherlock mumbled.

"Modestly."

Mycroft maneuvered them over to the shower and began pulling Sherlock's grimy clothing off. Sherlock tried to fight him, but ended up grappling with the air as Mycroft darted round him. Remarkable, the turbulence; after several confused minutes, he was naked and Mycroft was pushing him into the shower.

The water came on as he stumbled in. He spluttered and braced himself against the rail. 38.5 degrees. He leaned his head on the wall and waited to regain his balance. The first shock past, though, the warmth and wet drew out a deep sigh from his lungs, and all his muscles relaxed at once. It had been weeks. His legs sagged, and he would have fallen had Mycroft's supporting hands not steadied him.

"Aspire to remain upright, Sherlock," he said.

But he didn't want to. Between the soothing blankness of whatever Mycroft had drugged him with and the steady flow of the water across his skin, he was ready to let himself be unconstituted and swirl away. He muttered a half-hearted protest. 

"I know. It won't be long."

Sherlock's eyes closed as Mycroft clicked open a cap, releasing a scent of fig wood. Mycroft drew a meltingly soft washcloth along his skin, carefully avoiding the water-resistant bandages he had applied earlier. With each pass, Sherlock felt another layer of the past two years' grime come away, as if he were an Italian Renaissance painting revealing its ultramarine blues and coral pinks under the restorer's hands. The surreality of the image made him smile dreamily, and the act of smiling itself almost released him into sleep.

"Hold your breath," Mycroft said, and guided his head under the spray. That roused him enough that he could stay on his feet while Mycroft drew careful circles on his scalp with his fingers. 

Then he was leaning against the wall again, Mycroft's hands drifting lower. He wasn't hard, particularly, but the pleasure of being stroked mingled with the pleasure of the shower itself, complicating and intensifying the warmth of it. The orgasm felt like the final, slow, quiet dissolution of himself into his surroundings, and this time he did slump backwards, into a warm fluffy towel Mycroft miraculously had ready.

If this was civilization, he supposed he could endure it.

*

When Sherlock woke again, he was draped neatly along the middle of a bed. The only light in the curving alcove came from the desk nearby, where Mycroft, his back to him, was absorbed in a tablet. The only sound was the low hum of the plane's engines. 

Sherlock realized that he had no idea what time it was. He could still feel the drugs Mycroft had given him softening all the edges, but his hair was nearly dry. "Why is it taking so long?"

Mycroft didn't look up. The light shone through his thinner hair, picking up the faint red. "For political reasons, we must avoid certain airspaces. This requires a more circuitous route."

"And you do love a more circuitous route," he mused.

Mycroft smiled faintly at that, his long fingers skating over the surface of the tablet. He must have had a great deal of work to catch up on. His eyes were remote, nearly glassy. Sherlock had never liked that look. It meant he was somewhere even he couldn't follow him.

"Do come to bed, Mycroft."

"I'm busy."

"You've been awake all this time."

"I don't need—"

"You're talking to the world's leading expert on the effects of sleep deprivation on Holmeses," Sherlock said. He wasn't entirely sure why he was insisting, but, since Mycroft was arguing, it must be the right thing to do. "If you don't get some rest, you'll be impossible back in London, and I don't see why I should have to put up with that."

Mycroft sighed, briefly splaying his fingers over the side of his face. "Fine."

He clicked off the light, leaving Sherlock blinking at the afterimage. A moment later, Sherlock felt him arrange himself next to him on the bed. He rolled over and rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder, draping his arm over his chest. Mycroft's pyjamas were ridiculously soft, and Mycroft himself agreeably present again.

"Besides," he said, "this is more comfortable."

"I think I may have given you a bit too high a dosage," Mycroft said.

"No such thing," Sherlock said, though the room did seem to be swirling slowly around them in the dark.

"You're probably not going to remember any of this."

Was that right? It did seem likely. A pity; some of the sensations had been very instructive. And Mycroft, despite his eternal protestations, had _excelled_ at the fieldwork.

"Well, then." Sherlock lifted his head and kissed him. He felt Mycroft's eyelashes flutter shut, his whole body go still, and he smiled sleepily. "Back to normal in the morning."

"Doubtless," Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock curled in closer, and fell asleep to the even tidal ticking of Mycroft's pulse.


End file.
